YuusouIIHeroism

At the end of days, on this high mountain of sin, a shape still stands. The days of darkness reign, only the pale blue moon shines at times on this barren wasteland.

He/she, this lone lost breathing little one lifts his/her head to the skies, only clouds blocking the stars who were once shining so brightly.



The shape did not move, his/her long coat brushed behind by the wind, revealing pale skin, stiches, patches and scars. The sudden breeze was about to brush his/her hood away, but quickly reaching up with the left, damaged arm, he/she made sure it did not reveal his/her face.



The gaze went down to the ground of the mountain, the very foundation of it: ash, bone and dust, the only gain of his/her year long fighting.



The wind again came up to life, circling around the mountain´s top, carrying dust with it, vaguely shaping images: loved ones, monsters, scenes of sadness and trauma.

Without a motion he/she stared at the shapes, having seen such often before, not reaching to the old, rusted blade on his/her back, old and corroded with age.

Once the wind had subsided he/she was no longer alone, the shape of a young child, shaped from dust was standing right in front of him/her



"Still fighting?" The child asked, sadness in its voice, as it pointed to the countless bones they were standing on. 

He/she did not respond, just continued to stare at the child, unmoving.



"Why, it is pointless you know. You wont change anything. It´s been over long before you were even born, you needn´t fight someones elses lost war, just leave."

He/she shook his/her head a no, staring at the child with his/her pale silvern eyes, her answer more than clear.

"You cast away your life for naught, there is noone here to protect, nothing to fight for and as soon as you are done, the of this world will be done for as well."



Upon hearing this he/she gave a nod, drawing her old blade, speaking the first time, his/her voice quiet, yet unshaking. "There is the reason. So bring what you got, I will not run away."



Interested the child-form tilted its head, speaking

"Then, atleast tell me. What are you, who are you, poor, poor child." Its' voice filled with pity.

He/she sighed, seemingly not used to that much talking.

"Fears´ son, despairs daughter. Heroism."